


voulez-vous coucher avec moi?

by miss_sofia



Category: Deadpool (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Spider-Man (Comicverse)
Genre: Fluff and Crack, Fury ships it, M/M, SO MUCH SILLINESS, Valentine's Day, french superheroes are dicks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-16 01:01:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9266762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_sofia/pseuds/miss_sofia
Summary: in which wade and peter spend valentine's day in paris. (told you it was silly.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> originally published in 2012 @lj.

Being away from NY didn't work well for Peter. It felt too much like living off batteries instead of being plugged to a power chord, and he could feel the energy draining out of him, slowly and surely, his reflexes less intense, his senses less accurate, his aim less precise.  
  
It did not help that Wade seemed to react in a completely opposite way: being away from home only made him sharper and deadlier and madder.  
  
Peter slung from a web, dangled in front of the – er, monster? Alien? Mutant? What was even that thing? — bad guy of the day, and was ready to deliver a witty one-liner before knocking him over when his face was hit by a burst of dark slimy blood coming straight from an enormous gunshot wound in the probably-an-alien's throat.  
  
“Taken care of. Don't worry, I won't be requiring thanks this time, Spidey. I'm just doing it for the thrill and, of course, for your well-being.” A beat. “And for the well-being of the people of Paris, I guess.” He spun around, shot another alien, and spun back to face Peter. “That's a properly heroic thing to say, right?”  
  
The aliens were not even supposed to be his problem, let alone the people of Paris. He should have left Deadpool to fend for himself, to be sent to France on his own and deal with this ridiculous mess of international and diplomatic proportions. A mess that was, of fucking course, his fault. But no, no, Peter had to go and do the proper thing, offer to go and help because, after all, he was the one after the aliens back in New York, before Deadpool did whatever it was he did and sent them to destroy the Eiffel Tower and all the bakeries in sight. And, well, maybe Peter just knew Wade too well to trust him fighting off aliens in a foreign country alone.  
  
It was now late evening, and him and Wade were surrounded with the dead bodies of the last aliens, while all the french heroes stood on the sidelines and scoffed at them (not only did they refuse to help, but Peter strongly suspects they were cheering for the aliens).  
  
“I'm not dealing with clean-up.” He swung back to the top of the nearest building (this is definitely not New York, this building is too damn small), and tried to ignore the explosion he heard coming from the street below. If Wade wanted to bomb everything to get rid of the bodies, so be it.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Either S.H.I.E.L.D. — or whoever was in charge of this whole ordeal, because, to be honest, Peter had stopped keeping track a long while ago, and Wade never had any idea in the first place — had a very fucked up sense of humor, or the Gods were just not in his favor. Both, probably, because otherwise the hotel room assigned for them wouldn't be a honeymoon suite, complete with a king sized bed, roses everywhere, heart-shaped chocolates in the pillows and an almost flooding bathtub with strawberry scented bubbles.  
  
Peter turned around in his heel, ready to go back downstairs and tell the concierge there had been a mistake and that him and the other weird masked fellow were not in fact a gay couple recently married in New York, even if their matching skin-tight clothes could possibly lead to this impression. But exhaustion took him over just as he remembered his French was rudimentary at best and that the concierge would most likely just scoff at him — scoffing seemed to be the national hobby —, so he changed his mind, took off his uniform, and jumped under the covers, leaving a note by the bedside table:  
  
“Bed is mine. Take the floor or the bath or whatever you prefer, I just need to sleep.”  
  
Ten minutes and two heart-shaped chocolates later, Peter was asleep.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
He woke up with sunlight filtering in through the curtains and the startling realization that there was someone in bed with him. Not just anyone, but a snoring Wade, apparently naked, with the covers pulled up and the mask still on. He rolled out of bed and checked the bedside table for the note he'd left the night before. It was crossed out and, under the original writing, a scribbled reply:  
  
“The bath was too wet and the floor had splinters. Bed's more comfy. Plus, you smell nice.” And then, in a slightly more hurried handwriting, as an afterthought, “I saved your ass last night, buy me breakfast.”  
  
So Peter put on the suit and jumped off the window and, well, if he came back an hour later with an armful of pastries and cheese it was just because the owner of one of the corner bakeries he saved the night before seemed to practice gratitude instead of scoffing. It was not because he felt the moral obligation, let alone the desire, to bring Wade breakfast in bed. No, no, not at all.  
  
Wade, on the other hand, didn't see it quite like that.  
  
“Oh, Spidey, how sweet of you to bring me breakfast in bed.” He was now dressed, sitting at the edge of the bed flipping through channels on the television. “You didn't have to! I mean, I went out and got breakfast too.”  
  
That's when Peter noticed that, beside the bags he had just dropped on top of the covers, was another brown paper bag, filled with what seemed to be more pastries. He reached for it, but Wade batted his hand away.  
  
“They're special, and they're for later. Let's eat yours first.”  
  
Peter rolled his eyes — not that Wade could see it through the mask — and settled for sitting on the opposite edge of the bed, breaking a piece of bread and stuffing it into his mouth.  
  
“Wasn't our ride supposed to pick us up soon?” He took out his phone, but there were no cryptic messages or incoming calls, or any kind of communication attempt mingled in ridiculous Stark tech. “I mean, they did say we were only staying overnight and that they would send out someone for us soon. Because, honestly, I do not feel like going through airport security and pulling the superhero card.”  
  
“Yeah, about that...” Wade ducked his head, scratched the back of his neck, looked away. Peter knew this could only mean something awfully unpleasant. “Well, I might or might not have sent our ride away.”  
  
Peter gaped at him. “Why in hell would you do that?”  
  
“I told them we could use a day off, and that spending Valentine's Day in New York was not half as fun as spending it in Paris.” A beat. “Or I might have just made a scene and told them I was doing just fine here with the aliens and the much less controlled security, said a few unpleasant words, and made them annoyed enough to refuse to take me back.” He rolled up his mask to reveal his mouth, and broke a piece of bread for himself. “Maybe.”  
  
Admittedly, Peter's reaction was not the best. “It's Valentine's Day?”  
  
Wade laughed, that raspy chuckle deep in his throat. “The room is all hearts and roses, at least half of those pastries you got have hearts on them, and that didn't clue you in? I thought you were supposed to be the brains of our little dynamic duo.”  
  
“Spiderman and Deadpool: the brain and the brawl? Sounds like a bad action film.”  
  
“Who said anything about me being the brawl?”  
  
“You just said I was the brains. So you have to be the brawl.”  
  
“Oh, no, you got it all wrong, Spidey. I'm definitely the beauty.”  
  
Peter laughed, an unexpectedly genuine laugh, even if Wade's joke wasn't funny at all and if he was deflecting from the actual subject matter, which was how the hell are we supposed to get home.  
  
“It's okay, they'll be back for us soon. Or for you, at least.” Wade's voice seemed oddly sincere and concerned. Peter was not sure it suited him well. “But, for now, just try to enjoy it. I mean, how long has it been since you had a proper day off?”  
  
Peter tried to look back on his last few weeks. And months. And, dare he say it, years?  
  
“Just a couple of weeks ago I had an entire night off, I even went out for drinks with Johnny.”  
  
Wade chuckled.  
  
“So you had a free night, probably after fighting off New York muggers or doing whatever it is you do on your day job, and you spent it drinking with another costumed hero? One who most likely ignored you in order to flirt and give autographs to every girl in the bar?”  
  
Peter fell silent, munching on a sugary chocolate treat. “You could say that, yeah”, he mumbled.  
  
“So let's have ourselves a proper holiday.” Peter could hear the smirk in Wade's face. “And you better make it count, Spidey.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
There's probably something in the rusty tasting French tap water that's messing with his system, because he must be absolutely insane. In the hours following their sugar- and carb-coma inducing breakfast, they had swung through half of Paris, eaten more bread and cheese, climbed the Eiffel Tower (from the outside, obviously), and were, now, outside a flower shop. One with a long line of guys looking for a last-minute romantic bouquet for their dates.  
  
It said a lot about the neighborhood that two guys in leotards shopping for roses didn't make anyone bat an eye. Or, rather, one guy enthusiastically examining roses and asking questions to the florist while the other one stood outside, head ducked, pretending he had no idea what was going on. And, to be honest, it wasn't as if he had a lot of idea what was going on.  
  
A few minutes later, Wade emerged out of the shop, handing him three red roses tied together with a blue satin bow. He took Peter's arm and dragged him for a block or two, until they reached an empty square. Peter groaned in embarrassment and complained all the way, taking the bouquet hastily and opening the accompanying black card ready to roll his eyes at what would probably be a silly and mildly obscene poem. Instead, he found himself, once again (this was getting too frequent for his own taste), speechless.  
  
There were no ridiculous rhymes inside the card. No mentions of Wade's own awesomeness. Nothing about how Peter was his favorite girlfriend. It only read, in an attempted careful handwriting, “Thank you for everything. -W”.  
  
When Peter lifted his head to look at Wade, trying to find something witty to say, he found out they were much closer he remembered them being. He took a step back, instinctively, and hit a tree. Wade took a step forward, closing in on him.  
  
Peter cleared his throat. “Wade, if I didn't know you better I would be sure you were trying to seduce me.” Wade chuckled, and only then Peter realized his mask was rolled up slightly, revealing a stretch of scarred skin and smirking lips. He swallowed dry.  
  
“Took you this long to figure it out? See, I really don't think you're the brains anymore.”  
  
Wade's hands came up to Peter's face, lifting up his mask just slightly.  
  
“So what am I now, the beauty?”  
  
He was quite sure Wade whispered “Yeah, maybe” before he brought their lips together.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Their ride did finally arrive, late at night. They got into the plane together, sitting side by side and relaxing into each other after realizing they were alone except for the driver.  
  
“I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm so hungry.”  
  
Wade laughed and threw a paper bag at Peter's lap. “Here, there's still my special pastries left.”  
  
Peter quirked his eyebrow, before remembering Wade couldn't see it because of the mask. “There are no drugs in it, right? Because you've succeeded in the seduction thing already, you don't need to roofie me or anything like that.”  
  
Wade laughed, and shook his head. “Just open it already.”  
  
Peter hesitated. “No drugs?”  
  
“No, Spidey, no drugs.”  
  
He opened the bag and peeked inside. It was definitely a brioche, but it looked like...  
  
“Wade?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Is this shaped like...?”  
  
“A dick, yes.”  
  
Peter smiled despite himself. Wade was still Wade, after all.


End file.
